Post by Froststar on Jan 27, 2010 22:02:42 GMT -5
Alright, guys. This is uber explicit. So if you don't want to read something solidly PG-13, I suggest you turn tail and leave.
I wrote this last year after some difficult times. My dad is convinced I wrote it about my mom, but I don't really know what I wrote it for. It just came out in huge rolling phrases, like tears filling a bucket. I pretty much wrote all of this in one sitting, and have barely revised it since. I think I'm too emotionally attached to it to really change it yet. That's why I need someone to help me. Please, tell me what to change. Tell me what to fix. I'm counting on you, dear readers. Thank you for reading. Hold on tight.
Life Goes On
6:38.
Shit.
I thrash sideways, throwing the sheets and my legs off the bed. Quickly I begin pulling on my clothes, rummaging for my keys through piles of arbitrary knick-knacks that seem to have been replicated from the latest “I Spy.” I take off my shirt to put it back on again, right-side-out this time, and cringe as the smoke-soaked cotton drags across my face. I hate smoky things rubbing against me, which is silly. Whether you’re tugging it through a blunt or directly touching it to you, it all does the same thing in the end.
Where the hell did my left sock get to?
Ah. There.
I lunge across the room to the table covered in nearly empty pill bottles that are almost completely shielding my sock from view. I’m almost there when I stop dead. A horrific apparition greets me. I get a huge lungful of unclean air as I gasp with realization.
A mirror.
I reach to my face to cradle the corresponding bags under the red eyes. I tug the sorry wisps of blonde hair from the grubby cheek and reach into my jeans for my eyedropper.
I reach further.
Wow. These pockets are really deep.
Dammit! These are his pants!
I rip them off and toss them onto the table, knocking over some of the bottles still concealing my now almost forgotten sock.
What was that?
I pinpoint the direction and turn around, facing the bed.
Oh. It’s just him. He must have heard the bottles spill. Disturbed his sleep a little. I’ll be more quiet.
I glance to the floor to locate my missing Levis. As my eyes look downward they pass over a pair of scrawny white legs.
The years of cross-country still show in the muscle-lines on my calves.
The years of depression still show in the knife-lines on my upper legs.
I keep looking steadily downward. A bare foot.
Where the hell did that sock go?!
That’s right. Under the pills.
I frantically stride to the table again, purposefully looking downward as I go, avoiding the mirror and its lies, and, forgetting my vow of silence, noisily brush the pills and bottles off. Pills and bottles alike bounce and roll across the floor, joining skeletons of needles and empty plastic bags.
I pull on the sock quickly and resume the hunt for my missing denim-wear. My pinky toe protrudes from a cigarette hole.
I’m so thirsty. Damn birth control.
Focus. Pants. Pants. If I were pants, where would I be hiding? Come on out…I won’t hurt you…
Ah. My coaxing seems to have worked. A blue leg protrudes from under the bed.
Gotcha.
Carefully I button them to discourage another escape. Too much time has been wasted already.
I remember the eye-drops and feel blindly through my pocket.
Wrappers, mints, cigs, a lighter…nope. Not that pocket. Now the other one…a folded paper, a pencil, a tube of lipstick…ah. Here we are.
I uncap it and quickly drop saline into each eye. I look over at the woman on the other side of the mirror and want to comfort her. She is crying.
But I can’t. I don’t have time.
I grab the jacket hanging lifelessly over the worn chair and make for the door.
Fuck. Still don’t have the keys.
There! On the bedside table. Right next to that goddamn alarm clock. It now reads 6:43.
Five minutes. An eternity.
So late.
I scramble to the door, tripping over my shoes which I’ve forgotten to put on. Squeezing them on without unlacing them, I throw open the door, almost forgetting to check for nosy people in the hall.
I grab the handle quickly and pull it shut. As I hurry away, I can hear the “Do Not Disturb” sign scraping against the door.
Room number 611.
How ironic. My husband and I were married on June 11th.
Speaking of him, I need to get home before he notices I’m gone. I’ll just say I went out to get milk. I’ll swing by Bi-Lo and get a gallon for the hell of it.
I feel around in my pockets again, this time for money, and brush against the folded paper.
Oh yeah. My son’s report card. He asked me to sign it. I’d better do that before I forget.
I smooth my hair and unlock my white mini-cooper.
Life goes on.
I wrote this last year after some difficult times. My dad is convinced I wrote it about my mom, but I don't really know what I wrote it for. It just came out in huge rolling phrases, like tears filling a bucket. I pretty much wrote all of this in one sitting, and have barely revised it since. I think I'm too emotionally attached to it to really change it yet. That's why I need someone to help me. Please, tell me what to change. Tell me what to fix. I'm counting on you, dear readers. Thank you for reading. Hold on tight.
Life Goes On
6:38.
Shit.
I thrash sideways, throwing the sheets and my legs off the bed. Quickly I begin pulling on my clothes, rummaging for my keys through piles of arbitrary knick-knacks that seem to have been replicated from the latest “I Spy.” I take off my shirt to put it back on again, right-side-out this time, and cringe as the smoke-soaked cotton drags across my face. I hate smoky things rubbing against me, which is silly. Whether you’re tugging it through a blunt or directly touching it to you, it all does the same thing in the end.
Where the hell did my left sock get to?
Ah. There.
I lunge across the room to the table covered in nearly empty pill bottles that are almost completely shielding my sock from view. I’m almost there when I stop dead. A horrific apparition greets me. I get a huge lungful of unclean air as I gasp with realization.
A mirror.
I reach to my face to cradle the corresponding bags under the red eyes. I tug the sorry wisps of blonde hair from the grubby cheek and reach into my jeans for my eyedropper.
I reach further.
Wow. These pockets are really deep.
Dammit! These are his pants!
I rip them off and toss them onto the table, knocking over some of the bottles still concealing my now almost forgotten sock.
What was that?
I pinpoint the direction and turn around, facing the bed.
Oh. It’s just him. He must have heard the bottles spill. Disturbed his sleep a little. I’ll be more quiet.
I glance to the floor to locate my missing Levis. As my eyes look downward they pass over a pair of scrawny white legs.
The years of cross-country still show in the muscle-lines on my calves.
The years of depression still show in the knife-lines on my upper legs.
I keep looking steadily downward. A bare foot.
Where the hell did that sock go?!
That’s right. Under the pills.
I frantically stride to the table again, purposefully looking downward as I go, avoiding the mirror and its lies, and, forgetting my vow of silence, noisily brush the pills and bottles off. Pills and bottles alike bounce and roll across the floor, joining skeletons of needles and empty plastic bags.
I pull on the sock quickly and resume the hunt for my missing denim-wear. My pinky toe protrudes from a cigarette hole.
I’m so thirsty. Damn birth control.
Focus. Pants. Pants. If I were pants, where would I be hiding? Come on out…I won’t hurt you…
Ah. My coaxing seems to have worked. A blue leg protrudes from under the bed.
Gotcha.
Carefully I button them to discourage another escape. Too much time has been wasted already.
I remember the eye-drops and feel blindly through my pocket.
Wrappers, mints, cigs, a lighter…nope. Not that pocket. Now the other one…a folded paper, a pencil, a tube of lipstick…ah. Here we are.
I uncap it and quickly drop saline into each eye. I look over at the woman on the other side of the mirror and want to comfort her. She is crying.
But I can’t. I don’t have time.
I grab the jacket hanging lifelessly over the worn chair and make for the door.
Fuck. Still don’t have the keys.
There! On the bedside table. Right next to that goddamn alarm clock. It now reads 6:43.
Five minutes. An eternity.
So late.
I scramble to the door, tripping over my shoes which I’ve forgotten to put on. Squeezing them on without unlacing them, I throw open the door, almost forgetting to check for nosy people in the hall.
I grab the handle quickly and pull it shut. As I hurry away, I can hear the “Do Not Disturb” sign scraping against the door.
Room number 611.
How ironic. My husband and I were married on June 11th.
Speaking of him, I need to get home before he notices I’m gone. I’ll just say I went out to get milk. I’ll swing by Bi-Lo and get a gallon for the hell of it.
I feel around in my pockets again, this time for money, and brush against the folded paper.
Oh yeah. My son’s report card. He asked me to sign it. I’d better do that before I forget.
I smooth my hair and unlock my white mini-cooper.
Life goes on.
